


i did not know 'twas love i gave

by miribees



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ceci ñ'est pas une songfic, Classical Music, Crowley hates the 19th century, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Expressing Feelings With Music, Fluff, Gen, Historical References, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, are you ready to learn more than you ever cared to abt the romantic era?, crowley is jealous of dead men again, drunk banter, good buckle up lads, love is about meeting people where they are: the aziraphale story, rated T+ for canon typical drinking and swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-24 11:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20357365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miribees/pseuds/miribees
Summary: Chapter 3:"”Satan take me now into your infernal paradise." He paused. Satan didn't take him up on the offer. With gritted teeth, he inspected the newly revealed record, spinning it between his fingers and holding it at eye level. He simply looked at it. Unmarked, unlabeled, and most certainly miracled into existence. He ran a finger delicately over the grooved surface.”(it's finally complete! my labour of love! this has been a mess of editing and re-editing but i'm finally comfortable calling this the finished project)





	1. Chapter 1

In the months following the Apoca-wasn't, Crowley and Aziraphale enjoyed the rarest of all human luxuries together- unlimited, unrestricted free time. They spent weeks at first just in each other's orbit, hovering around each other like they always had before but now with significantly less fear of death, torture, persecution, and god forbid, being separated from each other. 

The weeks after those weeks were spent inching cautiously closer, a blistering pace compared to the thousands of years of standing still they each had under their respective belts. Aziraphale, quite recently, had taken up the habit of standing a little closer to Crowley than was traditional, of calling him _dearest, my dear, dear-heart_ in public; as well as "forgetting" personal items at Crowley's flat, as well as even _being _in Crowley's flat in the first place. Crowley pulled away each time like he'd been burned, and then; with all the self preservation of a particularly dense human toddler, put his hands back on the heat and braced himself. It was an improvement from before the End Times, they both would agree (if they would actually talk to one another about it), but both had tensions building under the surface.

For Aziraphale, it was the fact that Crowley seemed desperately anxious in his presence, even though he'd smirk his usual smirk and snark back at Aziraphale as good as he could give, and always let the angel drag him around London to test the boundaries of their newfound freedom.

For Crowley, it was the fact that Aziraphale was being even more his usual, loving, _oblivious_ self and was unwittingly throwing himself at the demon at every turn. There was no way he understood the wider context of his actions, surely, but intent didn't change the fact that Crowley was walking a razors edge during every interaction they had. Pulling away seemed agonizing, but every centimeter he crept closer was a centimeter he couldn't take back, and he knew he'd run out of razor eventually and reach a point that their relationship couldn't come back from.

No, thank you very much. He's waffled in neutral territory for 6000 years, and he'll do it again if he must. If that's what it would take to keep Aziraphale happy, beside him, and not suspecting a thing.

The suppression of 6000 years worth of feelings was a delicate endeavor, doomed to falter and crack eventually, and the first crack came when the word '_romantic' _reared it's ugly, beautiful little head.

"Mind if I put on some music, dear?"

"Mhrfm." Said Crowley, sloshed and noncommittal, and the angel scanned his collection with bleary eyes until he spotted a rather charming collected record of arrangements of English love songs. He shuffled across the cozy bookstore back-room to retrieve it, already humming as he struggled to line up the center of the vinyl with the player and balance the needle on the records edge. As the slightly tinny music began to play, Crowley threw his head back with an exaggerated groan.

_ Love to his singer held up a glistening leaf, and said “the rose-tree, the apple tree...” _

"Christssake, angel, anything but Vaughan Williams."

Aziraphale sighed, used to Crowley's contrarianism, and the humble record transformed under the needle. The spry strings were quickly replaced with delicate piano and a throaty baritone.

_ I love your eyes, I love your brow, O my rebel, O my wild one, I love your eyes, I love your mouth... _

"Ugh, Fauré? Not while I'm drinking, I could discorportate myself and achieve the same effect."

"What on earth is wrong with Fauré?" Aziraphale frowned into his wine, the music trailing off self-consciously.

"Endless pit of lovesick drivel's what it is. Drags on. All the same."

Aziraphale fiddled with the stem of his glass as he responded, "You've never shown yourself to be averse to classical music before, Crowley. You keep some in your car."

"Just the good stuff, lots of instruments, operas, not any simpering, boring, romantic..." He ended the sentence in a fit of grumpy stammering, abandoning further attempts at speech in favour of draining and miraculously refilling his glass.

"Romantic." Said Aziraphale flatly, returning to his seat.

"Whole bloody genre!"

"Wh- you mean the 19th century? 's not a genre, it's a period. Very different."

"Nope, whole thing's gotta go." Crowley declared, sniffing dismissively .

"Y'mean the industrial revolution, fluffy abstract paintings, that 'whole thing'? You seem very sure for someone who, who slept through the entire affair." Aziraphale frowned again, distant feelings of loneliness starting to resurface. (He secretly shooed them away- he couldn't bother with old loneliness when Crowley was here with him now).

"We're talking about music, 'Ziraphale, keep up. And it was _boring_." 

"You weren't even there for half of it, how do you know?" The angel threw up his hands, wine glass coming along for the ride, and it took a very quick adjustment to avoid a spill. Crowley watched, unimpressed.

"I just do."

Aziraphale started up the record again and gave the demon a pointed look. Crowley raised a hand as if to snap and the angel swatted at him from his position in his adjacent chair, too far away to actually hit anything but air. Crowley let his hand fall anyway.

_ I love your voice, I love the strange charm of all you say, O my rebel, O my dear angel, my inferno and my paradise... _

"You appreciate the poetry in all your bebop songs." Aziraphale said quickly, suddenly sitting up straight and beaming smugly at his own shrewd observation.

Crowley ignored the obvious attempt at baiting him with _'bebop'_.

"I practically invented purple prose, angel. Just because humans go writing it down doesn't make any of it real. I'm proud of them for it, causing so much strife and envy and heartbreak, but 't doesn't mean I have to _enjoy_ it. And it's _endless_, angel." The demon sat up now, swaying and clutching the stem of his wine glass. "I mean, the Italians were already getting carried away with their da capo phase, they just got more and more... show off-y. German’s were just depressing, dear lord, it was agony. And the _French_; don't get me started, loads of drivel, never-ending meaningless refrains of 'you're the air in my lungs, I will die on your lips, love is sssssooooooo painful-'

"That's actually very poetic, Crowley."

"- sung over and over for 5 minutes on top of chords that really ought to be put out of their misery. And they'll sing a set of 8 of those in a row and somehow expect you to not want to put yourself out of _your_ misery! Half the bloody songs just reuse whatever mediocre poetry was chic that decade, too. Copycats. Drivel." He sat back again with a thump, mouthing absently at the rim of his glass as he took to thinking.

"Opera has been doing mindless refrains since the 17th century and you like that just fine-"

"I like the funny ones-"

"- just because _some_ aspects of the Romantic movement were superfluous, it doesn't discount the wealth of human expression for an entire century and..." Here Aziraphale frowned a bit, very obviously trying to do mental math. "... a bit. Your bebop songs have plenty of meaningless squawking themselves, you know."

"I have. Impeccable tasssste, a- angel." Said Crowley, with a glare that issued he was not to be argued with on the matter, and a wine-hiccup that didn't speak much for his current levels of sophistication.

"Of course." Aziraphale hummed, conceding the point -if only temporarily- in order to refill his glass.

"Blessed right," Muttered Crowley, still exactly as drunk and petulant as he had been 20 seconds ago.

"You like symphonies. Tedious ones, most humans would say." Aziraphale poked at the topic again once he had sat back down.

"Stupid composers had such-" Crowley flapped one lanky arm through the air over his head in order to physically demonstrate the concept of enormity, "- _egos_, narcissistic little... 'course we got on. The bigger the better; desperation, excess, pride, all that good stuff. Still made some real ssssstinkers, though."

"That's beside the point, my boy. There has to have been something you liked, obviously you’ve at least kept up on who's who and what’s what.”

"Nah. Sink the whole century as a loss, we got all the good ones in Hell anyway; your lot took all the stuffy, pretentious nobodies." Crowley vaguely recalled that they'd already had this conversation, 11 years ago. He'd won their argument back then, and he was suddenly firmly determined to win it again, if only to permanently bury any notions Aziraphale may still have of appreciating any part of the 19th century in his presence.

"We have Schumann, he's not a nobody. And his wife, delightful people if you would've just met them."

"We have Tchaikovsky." Crowley knew, of course, that the angel adored Tchaikovsky. The angel who currently looked like a kicked puppy.

"That's not fair, Crowley. I'm not consulted on policy decisions. And you know it was a suicide." Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly before looking up. "Still a bit of a no-no, then. Upstairs."

The two settled into a less than comfortable silence, or rather, the two of them were quiet while the French baritone continued his heartbreaking laments in the background.

"Oh, cheer up, please?" Came Aziraphale's voice, and Crowley pressed himself further into his chair. What could the angel be asking him to cheer up for when he'd been the one to ruin the mood in the first place? He tried to think but very quickly lost his train of thought and settled for just being a prick about it.

"'m peachy."

"Is there something you're not telling me, dear?"

"Usually."

"Crowley." Aziraphale was exasperated now. Crowley never outright lied to him, but that never seemed to stop him from running circles around whatever subject was at hand either.

"Can't a demon just hate something?"

"Do you really believe it's so terrible? Humans poured all their little hearts and souls into making music." Aziraphale gave a genuinely distressed frown at the thought, and Crowley scowled.

"Bloody fucking _romantics._"

The demon drained the rest of his glass, and that was the end of that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is it the love? And there is genuine love in this music, you just can't feel it, obviously-"  
"Obviously." Crowley mimicked, officially annoyed.  
"Love... doesn't make you uncomfortable, does it?" Aziraphale was still looking at him, something indescribable shadowing his features.  
"Wouldn't know, never felt it." Crowley opted for feigned casualness, tamping down the rising anger in his gut.

Crowley forgot it ever happened, willfully, as he did with most of the awkward things he said while drunk. Most other people would call that tactic "ignoring the problem" or "avoiding your emotional hang-ups".

Aziraphale did not forget. Aziraphale, for being oblivious and naive, was still quite smart, and very attuned to the emotional state of a certain demon. Aziraphale was nosy.

  
"What did you mean the other night?"

"I've said a lot of things over a lot of nights, you'll have to be more specific." The demon was back in his usual spot on the edge of the back-room sofa, and he turned to face the angel as he drawled. His glasses were slid precariously down his nose and the movement threatened to finally send them onto the floor, so he scrunched his nose to adjust them, which slightly spoiled the suave effect.

"What you said about romanticism." Aziraphale watched Crowley's face as he replied, inwardly delighting at his screwed-up expression. He didn't bother to disguise his gaze or pretend to be looking over Crowley's shoulder, and the demon predictably shrunk down like a laboratory mouse flinching away from the alien glass perimeter of its cage.

Right, that. Of course Aziraphale was fixated on him embarrassing himself whining over some stuffy song. Christ, he was high-strung lately. 

"Don't recall. More wine?" He slapped both knees and pushed himself off the couch and to his feet, dashing back into the kitchen before Aziraphale could even begin to stammer indignantly. Crowley pretended not to hear it. (Aziraphale, at least, had a moment alone while Crowley banged unnecessarily loudly around the kitchen to formulate a more direct plan of attack.)

"Surely you wouldn't object to more music, my dear?" He smiled beatifically as Crowley reappeared, not above fluttering his eyelashes. Crowley promptly tripped over his own snakeskin feet and barely had time to _snap_ the bottle to safety before stumbling and pinwheeling awkwardly back to a balanced state.

"Knock yourself out, don't need my permission." He grumbled, looking away and slinking back to his perch, sans wine. Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow.

"Wasn't another drink the whole point, Crowley?" Aziraphale was already up and pouring glasses, walking one over leisurely to his companion before turning to survey his shelf of records. (Crowley grumbled again, and Aziraphale felt a little twinge of guilt pull on him for eliciting an unhappy sound.) He took a deep breath, transparently pretending to consider his choices before pulling out the record he'd had in mind all along and taking it over to the vintage player. He had slightly better hand-eye coordination now than he had the night before and the record began to spin without issue. The reaction from the demon was immediate.

"What the hell did I tell you about Fauré?" He pushed his glasses up onto his head in order to glare with no restrictions, but found the angel looking bemused.

"I thought you didn't recall?"

_Fuck,_ said Crowley, internally.

"Fuck", said Crowley, externally.

"My dear, I'm not trying to alarm you, but would you please just tell me what it is about this very specific period of human poetry and music that offends you so?" Aziraphale looked curious, and a little sad, tilting his head and gazing at Crowley with a tenderness that threatened to smite the demon where he sat.

Crowley floundered for a second before self-preservation kicked in in the form of deflection.

"You're killing me, angel."

"Not literally, I hope." Beautiful blue-eyed bastard. Crowley knocked his glasses back down, trying not to let his usual, day-to-day annoyance with Aziraphale turn into real, bitter annoyance. He gave no response save for a long, graceless slurp of wine. If Aziraphale was clever, and he was clever, he would leave it at that the way they left just about everything in their mutual existence undiscussed.

"I told you what I hate about it. In great detail." He jutted his chin out, mentally willing the angel to just tut disapprovingly and leave it well enough alone.

Aziraphale was also very stupid when he felt like it.

"Is it the love? And there_ is_ genuine love in this music, you just can't feel it, obviously-"

"Obviously." Crowley mimicked, officially annoyed.

"Love... doesn't make you uncomfortable, does it?" Aziraphale was still looking at him, something indescribable shadowing his features.

"Wouldn't know, never felt it." Crowley opted for feigned casualness, tamping down the rising anger in his gut.

"Crowley."

"That's my name.” Crowley was distantly aware that he was acting like a child, but his more immediate instincts were dominating the current conversation and those instincts screamed for escalation over honesty. They'd fought before and been fine, they’d drank and flirted a bit, sure, but Crowley had yet to dump thousands of years of repressed... _whatever_ on his heriditary enemy-turned-best-friend and scare him away. Which was the assumed response, after all the running away from him Aziraphale usually did when emotions came into play. That, or Aziraphale would purse his lips, shake his head in pity, touch him ever-so gently on the forearm as he'd been doing for weeks now and calmly explain that "_Oh, my dear boy, it isn't like that at all, obviously-_".

Obviously.

"What was that?" Came Aziraphales voice, closer than Crowley recalled as he was shaken from his catastrophizing and realized he'd been muttering aloud. The angel was standing over him with concern, and Crowley felt a burst of heat rip through his chest. He scrambled backwards off the sofa and to his feet with a maneuver that would've been impossible for a non-snake person.

"Nothing." He snapped. "Just turn that bloody thing off." Without actually waiting for Aziraphale to do anything, he snapped his fingers and the gramophone disappeared, taking the melancholic baritone with it. The angel's jaw dropped as he stared at Crowley and Crowley glanced away, glad again for the lenses protecting his eyes from scrutiny.

"Is this about something I did?" Aziraphale sounded... angry? Sad? Disappointed? Confused? Crowley wasn't about to look him in the eyes and find out, but the tone of the implacable emotion was giving rise to longing and fear in equal measure inside of him and he wanted out.

"It's about something that never fucking happened." He let the fear turn into defensiveness, the longing turn into just a small, selfish hint.

"What does that mean?" Aziraphale was letting his own frustrations rise, and Crowley was both offended by it and desperate to sooth it in equal measure. Rather than trying to express either and inevitably making a bigger mess of things, he clamped his mouth shut and began walking for the door.

"Crowley, I'm _trying_ to-" A hand landed on his shoulder, and he spun around quickly to intercept.

"No, I'm going home, angel. By all means, keep reminiscing over the good old days-" Crowley snapped again and the gramophone was back, the same song still playing, "-but I'm sick and fucking tired of remembering them."

_Je veux que le jour le proclame, L'amour qu'au matin j'ai caché-_

"Good-? What's there to remember, you were _asleep!_" More confusion, more frustration.

"And you were off fraternizing and having a grand old time with a bunch of bloody romantics!"

"But you also, you- What does that have to do with any- I missed you when you were gone, I thought of you-" Aziraphale was stammering, face steadily reddening. With anger, Crowley hoped, rather than some misplaced sense of empathy.

"You don't know what the hell you're saying." Crowley cut him off before that sentence could get worse.

"You're not listening to me!"

"You don't know."

"How about we start using some 'I' statements instead of you just telling me what I do or do not understand?" Crowley took in the tearful frustration on Aziraphales face. It wasn't the best look for the angel, and he relented.

"Fine. I think you don't understand what's going on, or else I would have to conclude that you're toying with me on purpose and I'd rather not entertain the notion." Crowley clenched his jaw to keep it from trembling. He needed to sober up before he said anything else, he decided, and he did so with just a slight twitch of his lip.

"Is this about humans?" Aziraphale looked desperately confused, and Crowley spit out a laugh.

"Maybe for you."

Aziraphale watched, mouth agape as Crowley stalked out the front door, heard the revving of an engine and the squeal of tires as the demon fled into the London night.

_\- Et l'emporte avec mon amour, aux plis de sa robe pâlie!_

One miracle of his own later, Aziraphale was sober and sitting back in his chair. The bookshop was silent again.

"Oh", he said, after several minutes of quiet thinking. "I think I've rather made a mess of things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, can you tell that az just wanted a nice night in with perhaps some (in his opinion) seductive music? things don't always work out the best when you don't have the full picture. crowley thinks az is completely unwittingly hitting on him as gods own fun little hell for him, and az has no idea how much their separation in the 1800's meant to crowley. also baby boy is kinda jealous but what else is new. i'm sorry if that didn't come through, i have a bad habit of not sharing enough emotions and thought processes bc those things are hard for me irl. i'll most likely add some elaboration on both their feelings (bc i couldnt settle on one pov rip i hope that also hasn't been annnoying) tomorrow to make it more Whole but for now please still do let me know what you think, i treasure all your responses
> 
> also, this is now a 3 chapter story because i've lost control of my life
> 
> translations: "I want the day to proclaim the love that I hid from the morning" ... "and to carry it away with my love in the folds of its pale robe!" by faure, ofc


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Satan take me now into your infernal paradise." He paused. Satan didn't take him up on the offer. With gritted teeth, he inspected the newly revealed record, spinning it between his fingers and holding it at eye level. He simply looked at it. Unmarked, unlabeled, and most certainly miracled into existence. He ran a finger delicately over the grooved surface. The expectation of what was to come hung heavy in the air. 
> 
> (songs are in multiple languages, but lyrics featured here are all in english for flow and ease of reading)

"Shit! Shit shit shitshitshit! Bugger me backwards and sideways in the middle of the Autobahn at rush hour! Fuck! Fucking Jesus Christ's left-"

Crowley continued in such a fashion until he came screeching up to the curb in front of his Mayfair flat, and even then he kept muttering indecencies under his breath as he stalked up the stairs and opened the door to his flat none too gently. Slamming it shut again behind him, he scanned the room. His serpentine eyes found his prey and he zeroed in.

"You!"

You, in this case, referred to an unlucky fishtail palm slouching in the corner. The plant shot up straight in terror as Crowley approached, desperately stretching for a few extra inches of height on it's feather-like green fronds, but it was too late.

"You've gotten _comfortable_, haven't you?" Crowley hissed, and the plant quaked. It was much taller than Crowley, but the sheer immensity of the demon's anger sent it to it's metaphorical knees. After about 30 minutes spent organizing an elaborate public trial for the plant, Crowley found himself a little calmer than he'd been when he arrived. But he still needed something to take the edge off. The edge being the entirety of his cognitive functions. He snapped a bottle of whiskey into his hand and stormed into his study, throwing himself in a dramatic heap over his impractical throne and curling around the bottle. Whiskey was traditionally drank in a small glass, but what was a bottle but a just-slightly-bigger glass? He let the minutes turn into hours there, caught in a bitter reverie. It was his own fault for letting his composure slip, he figured. It was Aziraphale's fault for being bloody stupid, the same but very petty part of him figured. It didn't matter, as embarrassing as it was to have one's carefully maintained 6000 year old walls start cracking because of a vapid human singing and a bad memory. Whoever invented love songs, they deserved a commendation. Truly evil. Crowley drank and contemplated God, contemplated reality television, contemplated activated charcoal, contemplated harpsichords, contemplated subscription-based computer programs, contemplated-

Something _popped_ into existence beside him where he lay curled into a tough red cushion, displacing the material plane and sending a slight ripple of celestial energy through the room as it thumped down onto his desk.

Crowley stared. He blinked, and then stared some more. There was an innocuous white envelope in front of his eyes, blank surface facing upwards at the ceiling from where it sat on top of a square parcel wrapped in thick black paper.

"No, no, for fucks sake-" Crowley was loathe to waste good alcohol for the second time in one night but was also not in the mood for dealing with... whatever was happening here completely pissed. He wasn't in the mood for it sober, either, but some things just have to be dealt with and he was done feeling like a fool for the evening. He hissed over the rotten taste in his mouth that would surely never leave and snatched up the envelope, turning it over. Wax sealed where the paper folded over, still no manner of address, but at this point the sender needed no introduction. Crowley held the envelope tightly in his hand until it threatened to bend in half under the pressure of his spindly fingers. 

"For fuck's sake, what does he want that he couldn't fucking _call me_ for, or leave it for tomorrow, or the week after..." 

(_He could be sending you a note telling you that your behaviour was very disappointing and that you're very politely forbidden from returning, ever, _came a sneaking thought.)

_Fuck off_, he thought back, and tore open the envelope.

_My dear Crowley,_

Off to a fantastic start. The letter was long, and Crowley had to squint to read the handwriting.

_I truly did not mean to cause you any agony, harassing you not once but twice with something you clearly hate. I was rather hoping you _wouldn't_ hate it, because it's something that is meaningful to me. I did truly just want to know what was wrong tonight, and I think I've figured it out. Please don't be unhappy with me for my presumptuousness, but I like to imagine I know you._

_My dear, you know as well as I do that leaving you in 1862 with such bitter words was not what I intended for our first meeting in decades. You frightened me terribly with the Holy Water business, and in case you still don't know, because I haven't exactly said it to you, you were right. You have this in writing and are free to frame it if that so suits you. But that's not what I intended to talk with you about that day, and it isn't the subject of this note now. _

Crowley reluctantly recalled the beginning of his little nap and the circumstances under which he'd been awoken. He'd been bored of the events of most human societies and found the atmosphere in the majority of the western world where he was stationed to be repetitious and draining. That was what he told himself, and he was sticking to it. Any demon would need a break eventually. He'd let himself get tired. He had penned a short note to Aziraphale before laying down his head, hoping guiltily that the angel would even care.

Hastur had woken him up in 1859, quite rudely, with the order from Beelzebub to Zz_top. Zzlacking. _He grimaced at the memory. Hastur had been rather full of himself then for being an elaborate excuse for a messenger boy, slapping Crowley awake with glee. Hastur didn't appreciate being told that, but in Crowley's defense, he'd gotten up on the wrong side of the bed that century. He pushed the memories of what followed back down. He'd needed insurance. He wasn't going to be vulnerable again. And that turned out terrifically. But, he recalled, Aziraphale came around eventually. Aziraphale said he was _right_, and he felt a flutter of satisfaction before remembering he was still in a foul mood. He turned his attention back to the letter.

_I won't apologize for enjoying myself. You have your preferences on human trends and so do I. But whatever lovely human expressions and inventions there were, they couldn't hold a candle to your presence. I meant it when I said that I missed you, and I thought of you. It was all but impossible not to when everywhere I turned there was, as you so elegantly described, "lovesick dribble" surrounding me. I indulged in it, chasing the words of others for just a flash of _ _catharsis that I was still incapable of understanding, but to be honest, it was for the majority an excuse to wallow. I entertained the notion that I could be a poet and put just a fraction of my feelings into harmonies and let some poor human sing them for me, never able to know the real depths of what they were saying. Only I would know, and maybe someday you as well. Purely as a matter of unlikely friendship, we two astronauts away from our worlds and clinging to each other when there was nothing else to cling to. What human could ever experience that? You called some of the poetry shallow and in comparison to the depths of our relationship I suppose I must agree._

'Unlikely friendship'. Crowley read the sentence again, struggling to digest the confession of terrible loneliness. Aziraphale considered him a friend, even when his actions spoke otherwise. Crowley knew now, at least, that his angel wasn't torturing him purposefully. Just innocent unintentional torture, and then they could get back to the business of being friends.

_I did not know at the time that it was love, Crowley, despite my longing for like-minded companionship. _

Nevermind that, then.

Crowley bunched his trembling hand into a fist in front of his face as he kept reading.

_It was a shameful daydream, missing you. I know you think me to be naïve, but I've had lovers and haven’t tried to hide that from you. I’ve had my friendships and companions for uncountable lifetimes, but after I left you I was faced with a crushing loneliness and longing and fear like nothing I'd experienced before. I set out to enjoy myself, to love humanity. I learned to dance. I found myself in the most delightful circle of intellectuals and artists during that century and let the new human societal freedom with regards to intimacy and expression wash over me and through me until my irresponsible mind could be satisfied. It never was. _

_But the poetry only became more and more meaningful as my feelings for you crept closer to being fully realized. It was when I saw you again in 1941 that I realized who I'd been listening for the whole time._

Crowley let his mind wander to 1941, the night he'd saved his angel's blessed hide, _again_, and given himself blisters for a year. He hadn't thought anything of it. He'd spent another few decades drifting in and out of conviousness for the sake of heartbreak then, waking only to meet his quota of inconveniences upon unsuspecting humans; and finally stumbling back into the mortal world to celebrate the turn of the century and nurture the seeds of some simple assassination plot in order to get Beelzebub off his back. But nothing human could ever really be simple. It was a miracle that he didn't run into Aziraphale during the first "World War", but by 1941 it was clear the angel was guaranteed to get himself killed if left unsupervised. He couldn't have that.

_Please humour me this, Crowley. I'm sorry I didn't state it more directly in the first place. I feel foolish, not for enjoying Somervell or Fauré or Tchaikovsky, but for not considering what memories you had surrounding the period when I pushed you away and refused to trust you as I should have. For beings of our longevity, I know it’s far from an old wound. I’ve been feeling rather giddy lately and thought that maybe you could hear what I heard, finally, now that we're free. I don't believe for a second that you've never felt love, but I regret that I couldn't make you feel mine. I've always been rather inconsiderate around you and these past nights have been no exception. Let me try again._

_My apologies for all the dramatics, dearest. I wish I could have told you quite calmly, more intimately, not following some stupid row over music. But there's never going to be a perfect time, and I think you simply need to know. This was my fault and I intend to make things better. I could never say anything with my own voice, so this will have to do._

_(And, do please give me a ring when you're feeling up to the task, if you can accept my apology. Letters are terribly inconvenient.)_

Crowley figured he was referring to the letter, which was a very Aziraphale thing to do. His mind was still reeling trying to absorb what he'd just learned, and he was vaguely aware that he had his jaw hanging open again. He absently closed it with a hand under his chin, thoughts racing. His eyes flicked back down to his desk and he was suddenly reminded of the odd parcel that had come with the letter. He stared, and the parcel stared back as if challenging him to open Pandora's box.

"Oh, don't tell me..." The parcel told him nothing as he reached slowly for it, hesitating before finally snatching it up and slapping the letter paper down in order to give it his full attention. It was flat and square, and Crowley swore as he pulled his prize out from the carefully folded envelope paper. 

"Satan take me now into your infernal paradise." He paused. Satan didn't take him up on the offer. With gritted teeth, he inspected the newly revealed record, spinning it between his fingers and holding it at eye level. He simply looked at it. Unmarked, unlabeled, and most certainly miracled into existence. He ran a finger delicately over the grooved surface. The expectation of what was to come hung heavy in the air. 

Moving in a daze, words like _love_ and _companionship_ rattling around in his skull, Crowley found his record player.

[...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQAQ5wuHESI)

_Believe me not, my friend, when from the depths of sorrow I say I do not love you anymore,_

_Do not believe the deception of the sea as it ebbs- it will return to the land, loving once again._

_I long for you once more, full for my former passion, again I will yield to you my freedom._

_And once again the loud waves rush back, from far away, to their beloved shore._

Crowley's Russian wasn't what it once was, but he understood right enough. He slid the needle off of the record as the wavering piano died away, aware that his hands were shaking again. Turning the words over in his mind, he was reminded of a neon night long-passed in Soho, of an argument on a bandstand with the world falling to pieces around them, screaming good riddance on a busy street. They were lies, born of fear and regret. He gave a shaky laugh at that. They really were two idiots, lying to themselves as much as to each other. He set the needle back down gently.

[...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x1GaKvo0-2o)

_Nightly I see you in dreams – you speak with kindliness sincerest; _

_I throw myself, weeping aloud and weak, at your sweet feet, my dearest._

_You look at me with wistful woe and shake your golden curls,_

_And stealing from your eyes there flow, the teardrops, like to pearls_

_You breathe in my ear a secret word, a garland of cypress for token,_

_I wake; it is gone, the dream is blurred_

_And forgotten the word that was spoken._

Crowley was aware of his own tears now, and he shook them away.

"Drivel." He laughed hoarsely at the thought of Aziraphale dreaming of him. He didn't know the angel even slept. Unless it was a wish, a hope that _Crowley_ would be the one to confess in his dreams, wondering if _he_ would be the one to lay his head down and chase after a secret meeting at night. If he had or not would come with him to- well, he wouldn't ever have a grave, but the sentiment stands. As he thought, the record continued spinning. The formerly gentle piano leapt forward with gusto, demanding his attention.

[...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Avevi_mi1TE)

_You my soul, you my heart, you my rapture, O you my pain,_

_You my world in which I live, you my heaven to which I aspire._

_O you my grave, into which my grief forever I've consigned._

_You are repose, you are peace, you are bestowed on me from Heaven,_

_Your love for me gives me my worth, your eyes transfigure me in mine._

_You raise me lovingly above myself,_

_My guardian angel, my better self!_

A guardian angel. As the chords of Ave Maria faded away Crowley gave several choked barks of laughter, unable to control himself as he gasped through streaming tears. From anyone else, it would sound like a very cruel joke, but not from Aziraphale. He flicked the needle off again, struggling to compose himself.

"Nonsense, what does- what does that even _mean_,who would ever-". To anyone else, this would sound like derision, but not from Crowley, not now. His shoulders shook from the effort of restraining himself, and he stood up and paced around his flat. Breathing regularly again after several minutes of practically climbing up the walls, he ducked his head into his garden-room. The plants were all looking away and very deliberately minding their own business. 

"Blessed right." He staggered back to his throne, sinking into it bonelessly as his rush of adrenaline was beginning to give way to emotional exhaustion. But whatever Aziraphale had sent him, it wasn't done yet. Crowley leaned over and replaced the needle in it's groove, close now to the center circle. As the final song began, Crowley smiled and whispered up to the ceiling.

"_French_, angel, do you even understand what you’re saying...?”

[...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXaFjGLMUKQ)

_ When your smile surprised me, I felt a shudder through my entire being,_

_But what tamed my spirit, at first I did not recognize._

_When your glance fell on me I felt my soul melt,_

_But what emotion that was, at first I could not answer it._

_What conquered me forever, that was a charm more sad._

_And I did not know that I loved you,_

_Until I saw your first tear._

Crowley thought about the gates of Eden, when an unassuming angel had coaxed a smile from him, had been stupidly and inadvisably kind to him. He'd fallen, right then and there. The hum of the still spinning record was the only sound in the room for a long while, until Crowley brought it back into his hands with a snap. He swung his feet back onto the floor, record now clutched to his chest. He held it that way for several more minutes, gathering his thoughts. Finally, with a deft motion, he grabbed his phone and hit Aziraphale's number on speed-dial. 

"Hello?" He'd picked up on the first ring, of course he did, his greeting tumbling from his mouth breathlessly.

"I'm coming over." Crowley hung up as quickly as he'd called, now singlemindedly focused on getting to his destination as soon as possible. He wouldn't drive, it was too slow, but it felt like an inappropriate time to just burst in through the phone lines and land on the floor in a heap. Crowley raised his hand, thinking about the bookshop's front door.

_Snap_

And he was there, record still in hand, face still stained with tear-tracks, looking up at the glowing windows of the shop as they illuminated the dark crossroad behind him. The cold night air hit him suddenly, a sharp contrast from the perpetual heat of his flat. As he gathered himself, heart pounding, the front door creaked open. Just a sliver, just enough for a wisp of glowing white hair to peek out and then duck back. Crowley didn't think as he leapt towards the motion. Aziraphale pushed the door open ever-so-slightly more, trying to think of what to _say, _but as he fretted he was suddenly hit with an armful of demon. The pair stumbled back into the foyer, adjusting to each others weight and swaying slightly together. Crowley wrapped his arms as tight as he could, pressing the record into Aziraphale's back as a consequence. 

Aziraphale was the first to break the embrace, pressing his hands against the demon's chest to gently extricate himself. He kept his hands there as he looked up at Crowley. Neither spoke, until both of them did.

"Angel, I-"

"I'm sorry, Crowley-" They stopped, awkward, and Crowley nodded for Aziraphale to continue.

"I'm sorry for, well, beating around the bush, Crowley, and making you uncomfortable. I've been trying for weeks to show you my affection but I just wasn't very good at it, it seems, and-" He bit his lip, stemming the jumble of words before it could get out of control. After a deep breath, he began again. "I'm sorry this wasn't, well..."

"If you say romantic, I'm leaving."

"Oh, no you don't!" Aziraphale wrapped his arms back around Crowley and burrowed his face into the crook of his shoulder. Crowley sighed and leaned his head against the angel's sheeps-wool white hair.

"It was."

"Hmm?" Aziraphale lifted his head to look at Crowley, and the demon felt his completely unnecessary heart skip as it sent blood rushing to his face. He glanced away as he mumbled.

"It was romantic." The angel beamed up at him at that, and he hissed at the blinding sight.

"Sorry, sorry." Aziraphale hummed, pressing his face back against Crowley's chest. Crowley let himself luxuriate in the feeling, his trembling soothed and mind slowing down. After several minutes of deep breathing, Crowley remembered something rather important. He blinked the record away into his safe. He set one spindly hand against Aziraphale's cheek, gently urging the angel’s gaze back to meet his own as the other hand snaked up to tug his glasses off of his face and fling them further into the bookshop. He fixed Aziraphale with his undivided attention and a smug grin spread across his face as he leaned in to breathe against Aziraphale's ear.

"Angel." 

"Yes, my dear?"

"I cannot _believe._ That you made me a _mixtape._"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this beast is done!  
songs in order of appearance, text and sources: https://www.oxfordlieder.co.uk/song/2505, https://www.oxfordlieder.co.uk/song/887, https://www.oxfordlieder.co.uk/song/406, http://www.lieder.net/lieder/get_text.html?TextId=15062. 
> 
> please, please let me know what you think. This was a labour of love and I really struggled thinking that it was a stupid idea. But this 3rd chapter, everything felt like it came together.

**Author's Note:**

> let me tell you, i AGONIZED over crowley's feelings re: the romantic era to an absolutely ridiculous degree. but i did, as you have just read, decide that he'd take the whole business rather personally. humans writing all those simpering repetitious love songs and flowery bullshit, you know how it is. i ALSO agonized over the dates crowley slept, because he definitely took a big nap in the early 1800's but was awake in 1861, and going by the deleted scene in 1880 was intended to be awake and interacting with aziraphale again by then. so i decided that he slept for about 50 years before 1861, went back to sleep afterwards, and woke up around the turn of the century and they both continued their lives as normal. phew, that was needlessly complicated.
> 
> next chapter we'll get into the actual music and more discussion of feelings, but i wanted to get this out there and perhaps get some feedback.  
edit: SUBSTANTIALLY revised and i feel a million times better about it, i'm actually very proud and hope some of y'all are excited for part 2 and 3 <3  
comments fuel me :') thank you to everyone who's reached out and been so nice, you gave me the inspiration to continue


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